


Obviously

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Happier than he ever thought he could and would be, Happy, He tells John but blunders through it a bit, Implied/referenced suicidality, John knows better anyway, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock realises he is happy, Some time far into the future, they are so happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:45:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9542219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: Some time far into the future, it sinks into Sherlock, a certainty as solid and unshakable as the earth:I don't want to die.He tells John how much John has to do with that development.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Silly little phone thing started out on
> 
> http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/156279438892/wssh-watson-wssh-watson-wssh-watson-oh-my

If someone had told Sherlock, four years ago, how he would spend his future, he would not have believed them.

But here they are.

John and he are family, in every sense of the word. The child in their flat and the rings on their fingers and the love between them do not make their bond biological, but that is hardly of necessity. 

Their bond is made of more than blood. Though it disagrees with Sherlock's scientific mind, for once inaccuracies do not matter: he has all the proof he needs that blood is not thicker than water. Metaphorically spoken, of course. Blood is nothing.

Rosie is not related by blood to any of them but John, yet they are the people who love her the fiercest: Mrs Hudson still has teary moments when being called "grandma"; even Mycroft has ceased frowning upon being addressed as "uncle" by a five year old and sometimes excuses himself suspiciously early after a well-timed coughing fit.

Sherlock spends most of his evenings with a tiny human in his lap, until that tiny human has grown enough to call him pa and stand on wobbly legs to pull on his hair and bump his nose with her own.

One night, a thought comes to him, unbidden: _I don't want to die._ It is the stronger echo of what he whispered hoarsely into a room housing a serial killer years ago. It does not come to him under duress but as Rosie is busy poking him into the cheek and calling him boring.

It just comes.

It keeps coming.

Each night, the scene repeats with altered variables: 221b, their living room, with the main players present (Sherlock, John, Rosie, and frequently Mrs Hudson), it overcomes him. _I don't want to die._

_I don't want to die._

Not being an expression born out necessity but being the idle ponderings of a subconscious that has now had several years of time to shed the significant weights of self-loathing and loneliness, Sherlock cautiously regards it as true. It's undisputable. Sherlock does not want to die any longer.

Another night, with Rosie asleep between them on the couch and John's hand carding repetitively through Sherlock's hair, Sherlock does a comparison.

He spent the majority of his life so far wishing he would die and sometimes passively, other times actively, pursued that endeavour. (The keyword "OD" comes to mind, as well as an urge and a want so consuming it had obliterated all else.)

And for... yes, four years, three months, eighteen days, and about two hours--for that amount of time, he has had John back in this living room. He must not have wanted to die since then. Or does it go back farther? Probably. What is he thinking, obviously it does--January the 29th, 2010. That's when it started. 

The details do not matter. John does. And John is the 29th of January 2010.

*

When he and John have had a glass too much the following week and Mrs Hudson has Rosie with her for the night so they have the night off to themselves, Sherlock accidentally tells John. It is not planned, but John's cheeks are red and his hair is a fetching shade of silver in the dim light of the fire, and Sherlock's mouth just wanders.

John does that.

He says, “I used to want to die, but I don’t want that anymore,” and John is not startled; John just stares at him, then inclines his head in a barely perceptible nod.

He rises from his chair and takes a step closer--another--and reaches out to smooth Sherlock’s fringe back from his forehead, which makes Sherlock look ten years younger. Right now, he looks especially young, with his wide eyes and parted lips.

John leans forward to brush his nose against Sherlock and murmurs, “You silly man.” He smiles slightly. “I haven’t wanted to die since January the 29th of 2010.”

Sherlock's breath catches. 

He says nothing else this night. His mouth is occupied with lovelier, more necessary pastimes.

*

The next day over breakfast, Sherlock clears his throat. “John,” he says, sounding overly formal. “There is something…”

John lowers the newspaper and peers at him expectantly over it. “Yes?”

Sherlock tries not to squirm in his seat. He doesn’t quite manage and ends up moving his foot, accidentally knocking it into John’s. He flushes. “Sorry,” he mutters. God, what is wrong with him? This is hardly a difficult thing to do.

John just raises his eyebrows. “It’s fine,” he says. “There is something…?”

“Ah, yes.” Sherlock clears his throat again. When he speaks, it is to the table. “Last night, I–I forgot to specify.” God, is he actually stuttering? He is.

Sentiment.

He takes a deep breath. “I forgot to specify the date,” he rushes to say, without any breath at all. “It’s the 29th of January for me too.”

There is a pause. John says nothing.

Sherlock’s heart is a wild drum in his ears. How foolish. He’s said, “I’m in love with you,” to John four years ago and says it an average of two times a week. This shouldn’t be hard, but somehow–he feels vulnerable anyway, like he’s baring his throat, and–

Under the table, John’s foot nudges his. Sherlock’s head jerks up at the contact so suddenly his teeth click together.

John winces, but he’s smiling. Quite widely, in fact. “Obviously,” is all he says.

His foot slides over Sherlock’s and stays there.

And just like that, all the anxiety is gone. Well. Obviously “obviously.” Of course John knows. He’s John. He’s always right. Clever John.

Sherlock’s mouth curves in a lopsided, rare smile. “Obviously,” he echoes, and then they’re already giggling over it.

If someone had told Sherlock, four years ago, how he would spent his future, he would not have believed them.

But if they had told him he would not want to die any longer, he would have said, "Obviously."


End file.
